O Love! thy genius and thy force I know,
Thy burning torch, and peftilential bow:
From fome fermented tempeft of the main,
At once commenc'd thy being, and thy reign;
Nurs'd by fell harpies in fome howling wood, 35
Inur'd to flaughter, and regal'd with blood:
Relentless mischief! at whofe dire command,
A mother ftain'd with filial blood her hand:
Curst boy! curft mother! which most impious, say,
She who could wound, or he who could betray? 40
AWAKE, my mufe! the foft Sicilian ftrain:
From love those fighs I breathe, those plagues fuftain.
Why did I first EUANTHE's charms admire,
Bless the soft smart, and fan the growing fire?
Why, happy still my danger to conceal,
Could I no ruin fear, till fure to feel?
So feeks the swain by night his doubtful way,
Led by th' infidious meteor's fleeting ray;
Still on, attracted by th' illufive beam,
He tempts the faithless marsh, or fatal stream: 50 Away with fcorn the laughing Daemon flies, While fhades eternal feal the wretch's eyes.
AWAKE, my mufe! the foft Sicilian train; Ah! can no laft, no darling hope remain, Round which my foul with all her strength may
And, tho' but flatter'd, call the treasure mine?
Wretch to the charmer's sphere canst thou ascend,
Or dar'st thou fancy fhe to thine will bend?
Say, fhall the chirping grafhopper affume
The varied accent, and the foaring plume;
Or fhall that oak, the talleft of his race,
Stoop to his root, and meet yon fhrub's embrace?
AWAKE, my mufe! the foft Sicilian ftrain;
Thofe pallid cheeks how long shall forrow stain?
Well I remember, O my foul! too well,
When in the fnare of fate I thoughtiefs fell:
Languid and fick, fhe fought the distant shade,
Where, led by love or destiny, I ftray'd:
There, from the nymphs retir'd, deprefs'd fhe lay,
To unremitting pain a smiling prey:
Ev'n then I faw her, as an angel, bright;
I faw, I lov'd, I perish'd at the fight;
I figh'd, I blush'd, I gaz'd with fix'd surprise,
And all my foul hung raptur'd in my eyes.
FORBEAR, my muse! the foft Sicilian strain; 75
Which heav'n beftows, and art refines, in vain:
What tho' the heav'n-born mufe my temples fhade
With wreaths of fame, and bays that never fade?
What tho' the Sylvan pow'rs, while I complain,
Attend my flocks, and patronize my strain?
On me my stars, not gifts, but ills bestow,
And all the change I feel, is change of woe.
Bur fee yon rock projected o'er the main,
Whose giddy profpect turns the gazer's brain:
Object is loft beneath its vast profound,
And deep and hoarse below the furges found:
Oft, while th' unthinking world is loft in fleep,
My fable genius tempts me to the steep;
In fancy's view bids endless horrors move,
A barren fortune, and a hopeless love...
Life has no charms for me; why longer stay?
I hear the gloomy mandate, and obey.
What! fall the victim of a mean despair,
And crown the triumph of the cruel fair?
No, let me once fome conscious merit fhow,
And tell the world, I can furvive my woe.
mufe! the foft Sicilian strain:
FORBEAR, my Fool! wretched fool! what frenzy fires thy brain? See, ghoak'd with weeds, thy languid flow'rs recline, Thy sheep unguarded, and unprop'd thy vine. 100 At length recall'd, to toil thy hands inure,
Or weave the basket, or the fold fecure.
WHAT tho' her cheeks a living blush display, Pure as the dawn of heav'n's unclouded day; Tho' love from ev'ry glance an arrow wings, 105 And all the mufes warble, when the fings? Forbear, my mufe! the foft Sicilian strain;
Some nymph, as fair, a sprightlier note may gain: There are who know to prize more genuine charms, Which genius brightens, and which virtue warms: muse! the soft Sicilian ftrain;
Some nymph, as fair, may fmile, tho' fhe difdain.
The PLAINTIVE SHEPHERD. A PASTORAL ELEGY. Ebeu! quid volui mifero mibi? floribus auftrum Perditus, et liquidis immifi fontibus apros.
YOLIN, whofe lays the fhepherds all admire,
For PHOEBE long confum'd with hopeless fire; Nor durft his tongue the hidden finart convey, Nor tears the torment of his foul betray:
But to the wildness of the woods he flies,
And vents his grief in unregarded fighs:
Ye conscious woods, who ftill the found retain,
Repeat the tuneful forrows of the swain.
AND must I perish then, ah cruel maid!
To early fate, by love of thee, betray'd?
And can no tender art thy foul fubdue,
Me, dying me, with milder eyes to view?
|